


That Name is Striking Fear in Nobody's Heart

by vampireisthenewblack



Series: Wake Up Dead [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 2013, Angst, Blood Drinking, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03A AU, vamp!Stiles, vampires are real
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampireisthenewblack/pseuds/vampireisthenewblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek lifts the lid of an old cardboard suitcase. There's row after row of leather bound journals inside. There's other suitcases piled up around it, some antique, some very new. "Jesus," Derek says. "It's like a history of luggage down here." He flips some more open. They're all filled with books.</p><p>"That's where the history is," Stiles says. "In those books. <em>His</em> fucking history." He turns away. "We don't even know his name."</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Name is Striking Fear in Nobody's Heart

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the rest of the series, about the only one you _need_ to read to avoid confusion is [One Day You're Gonna Wake Up Dead](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1024385). Only 800 words. Feel free to read the rest of the [series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/61702) if you have time though :)
> 
> Unbeta'd, cos idfic and itchypostits. Feel free to point out typos and kiwiisms.

It's an abandoned warehouse, and there's a big old 1950's basement underneath. Only Stiles was able to track the vampire's scent here, the werewolves couldn't manage it on their own.

There's a tumble of blankets on the floor in one corner, a flimsy wooden crate standing on one end beside it. There's a half burned candle on top, wax dribbled down onto the wood. Stiles picks up the disposable cigarette lighter beside it and lights the wick.

"But you can see, right?" Scott says, bending to pick up a book lying face down inside the box.

"Probably better than you." Stiles' voice sounds loud to his own ears and wonders if that's what it's like for werewolves, or if it's worse. "What is that?"

It smells of the vampire, the leather cover carrying the patina of age and use. The corners and pages curl back as if it's handled often, bent back at the spine to read or write in.

"Looks like a diary." Scott riffles the pages back to the front. "Holy shit. It's old."

Stiles takes it out of Scott's hands, examines the spiky script. The ink is faded, and the date on the first page is 1853 or 1855, it's hard to tell. The first sentence on the page is this:

_family blood is always the sweetest_

Stiles snaps the book shut. He wants to throw it down on the blanket, pour gasoline over it, and watch the warehouse burn to the ground. He doesn't.

"There's more over here," Derek says, lifting the lid of an old cardboard suitcase. There's row after row of leather bound journal inside. There's other suitcases piled up around it, some antique or vintage, some very modern, and a couple of pirate treasure chest looking things. "Jesus," Derek says. "It's like a history of luggage here." He flips some more open. They're all filled with books. Notebooks. Journals.

Stiles sighs. "That's where the history is, in those books. _His_ fucking history." He turns away, stares back down at the forlorn pile of blankets. "We don't even fucking know his name."

"Tom," Derek says, the word punctuated with the crisp rustle of paper. " _Dear Tom_." There's another sound, duller, like card. " _To Uncle Thomas_ ," Derek reads. " _Happy birthday_."

"Stop." Stiles throws the diary in his hand, watches as Derek catches it expertly. "I'll look at all that stuff, but not yet. The guy only died two nights ago. If this wasn't the only decent safe place we knew about, I wouldn't even be here. I'm so not ready to be going through his stuff."

"What do you need?" Derek asks.

"Spare battery for my phone." A downside of summer is the long days. Stiles knows he's going to come to think of it like that. "Snacks." Scott snorts and Stiles shows him his middle finger. "Seriously. I mean like chips and shit. Asshole. I can still eat. Apparently. Even though you guys all looked at me like I was crazy at dinner. It was one slice of pizza."

"Doesn't it, like, smell wrong or something?"

"It smelled like pizza." Stiles shrugs. It didn't help the hunger, and he washed the pizza down with what seemed like half Derek's body weight in blood, but it tasted good. Like pizza. "Just get me some chips, man."

"We've got time to get some furniture in here, too," Derek says, tapping at the screen of his phone before putting it to his ear.

* * *

"Tom is a shit name for a vampire," Stiles says when the two of them are locked in. They brought the couch from Derek's loft in, and apparently it's a pull-out, so Stiles now has a bed. He sits on one end, hand in a bag of chips, while Derek folds and stacks the messy pile of blankets the vampire left behind.

"You'd prefer Lestat?" Derek says. "Dracula?"

"I'd prefer something. Not 'Tom'. Jesus. The dude got a birthday card from an eight year old, for fucks sake." Stiles stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth.

"You're upset because he wasn't a bad guy," Derek says as he slides onto the couch beside Stiles. "And you're using junk food to fight the cravings. Do you know how futile that is? How dangerous?"

Stiles sneers. "I can feel the sun. It scares me more than anything. I doubt I could so much as approach the stairs, let alone leave here. Also, flaming death if I did—I think. Not exactly clear on the details. I don't want to try it. Humanity is safe."

"The longer you wait, the more you drink, Stiles."

Stiles refuses to meet Derek's eyes. "You're not a bottomless cup of coffee."

Derek lets out a soft huff of laughter. "Yeah, I am. As long as you don't drink it all at once again." Stiles would have attacked his father the first night. Instead, he all but drained Derek. "And the longer you wait, the more likely that is to happen." He pulls at the top of the chip bag, tugging gently until Stiles lets go, and he puts it down on the floor. "Come on."

The empty ache in the pit of Stiles' stomach hurts. It makes him want to double over, to clutch his belly and cry—or tear the throat out of everyone he sees. He knows he shouldn't let himself get hungry, but he has to drink almost constantly to avoid it and it was bad enough in the school basement yesterday with Scott there to share the load. This time it's just Derek. "Take your shirt off," he says, because he makes a mess, staining the collars of Derek's shirts, and he really hopes that he gets better with practice.

A flush of heat spreads over Derek's skin as he stands and peels off his shirt, accompanied by the scent Stiles now recognizes as arousal.

Derek's shirt hits the floor, and he pulls Stiles by the hand. Stiles lets Derek pull him off the couch—consciously has to allow Derek to drag him up because if Stiles didn't want to move, he wouldn't be moved—and toward the wall, where he pulls him down.

The way Derek sits, against the wall, legs stretched out in front, and the way he pulls Stiles down, there's only one way he can come to rest. Straddling Derek's lap, hands on Derek's shoulders, because anywhere else is too much just yet.

Derek pushes Stiles' shirt off his shoulders. "You should take off your shirts, too." He lifts the hem of Stiles' t-shirt. "Since we're trying to stay clean." There's too much heat in Derek's voice. Too much want and it's so hard to focus with that and the sound of Derek's blood rushing in his veins, the smell of it close to the skin at his throat.

Stiles wants to take advantage of it. It's inbuilt in him now, an instinct, something in the back of his mind that urges him to use Derek's attraction to gain his trust, to get close and tear his throat out.

Stiles fumbles off his shirt, drags his t-shirt over his head and flicks it away. "Stiles," Derek breathes, and his heart is pounding as he tries to pull Stiles toward him with one hand on the back of his neck. Eventually he gives up, lunges forward to press his lips to Stiles' mouth.

It's nothing, really, but through the soft press of Derek's lips against his, Stiles can feel Derek's heartbeat, and his teeth are aching to sink deep into an artery and drink until he's full, but he wants to stay here, too, he wants to press close and grind Derek into the space between the wall and the floor.

He's hard, and Derek's hard, and Derek's arm is around Stiles' waist, maybe pretending that he's got the strength to pull Stiles against him but really, it's all Stiles. He's the one rubbing their cocks together through two layers of denim and licking into Derek's mouth and biting into his lower lip.

"Sorry," Stiles says when he tastes blood and registers the palm on his chest and lets Derek push him away. It's not enough, anyway, he needs into that fat vein in Derek's neck that will fill his belly in under a minute.

The one that will kill Derek if Stiles doesn't stop in time.

So when Stiles pulls back and tips Derek's head to the side to expose his throat, he licks over the meaty muscle at the curve between his neck and shoulder, and he sinks his teeth in there.

Derek lets out a brief gasp of pain, stiffening as Stiles slices open his skin and bites down deep into the muscle, but then he relaxes, his arms tightening around Stiles' back as Stiles settles in to drink.

It's good. Hot and thick, easing the dryness of Stiles' throat, easing the ache in his teeth. Blood seeps into Stiles' mouth, a little faster when he sucks, and he still wants to tear out of there and into Derek's carotid, but the desire for all of it, all at once, is lessened. Stiles shifts his hips, dragging his cock against Derek's again.

This is so much better. Warmth in his throat and the smell of Derek's arousal and the friction on his dick and the sharp upswing of Derek's pulse pushing more blood into his mouth. The sounds Derek is making, soft, bitten off gasps that might be pain and might be pleasure and might be both.

Stiles pulls back, drawing his teeth slowly out of Derek's shoulder. Warmth trickles down his chin, blood drips onto his chest, and there's an urge to wipe it away, to hide it, except there's another that overrides, and has him tipping his head back, letting the blood held in his mouth trickle down his throat, dragging his tongue over canines still warm from being embedded in Derek's flesh. He rocks his hips, sliding the length of his dick against Derek's.

Derek lets out a shuddering breath and Stiles looks down. The wound is healing, but there's blood in a trail down Derek's chest, a glistening red streak down over his pectoral muscle. Stiles tips his head to the side, rolls his hips again, and drags his thumb through the trail of blood, circling Derek's nipple, painting it red before he drops his mouth down and licks it away.

"God, Stiles," Derek says, arching up as Stiles' tongue drags over his nipple.

"You like that," Stiles breathes, then darts his tongue out again to flick at it. He's shifted down Derek's thighs, has to rub his dick against Derek's leg now, leaving Derek neglected. Stiles tugs at the button of Derek's jeans with surprisingly deft fingers.

"Jesus Christ," he says as he pulls out Derek's cock. "Everything's so goddamn easy." He locks his mouth around Derek's nipple and sucks as he starts to jerk Derek off.

"Get up here," Derek demands, pulling at Stiles. "Get your fucking jeans off, Stiles. I wanna see you. Please."

Stiles gets as far as getting his jeans open and his dick out, when he looks down at Derek's cock, lying hard and leaking against his belly and has a great idea. "Just let me..." he murmurs as he presses forward, rubs their cocks together, skin against skin.

"Yeah, that's good," Derek breathes. "God, that's so good. I didn't know if... You don't have a heartbeat. Didn't know if you'd even want... How do you even get hard?"

"Huh," Stiles says as he rolls his hips, long and slow, thrusting his cock against Derek's. "Yeah, I have no idea. Makes no fucking sense but I'm so glad I can. I don't think unlife would be worth living if I couldn't get off. Fuck, I wanna come all over you, wanna bite you again, please."

"Yeah," Derek says, fingers digging into Stiles' hips as he tries and fails to guide his thrusts.

Stiles wastes no time getting his teeth back into Derek. It's not hunger this time that drives the need to taste blood, to sink his teeth into Derek's flesh. Stiles wants to mark him, wants to taste what's his, wants to take a little part of Derek inside him.

Stiles' teeth sink into the side of Derek's neck, high up under his ear and far enough away from the major vessels that Stiles can drink for as long as he likes. He gets up a regular rhythm of thrusts, sliding his dick against the length of Derek's. Then Derek wraps his hand around the both of them, starts stroking in time with the beat of his own heart.

"Harder," Derek whispers, and it's so quiet Stiles isn't sure he's supposed to hear it, and all he can figure is that Derek wants him to bite down harder, to suck harder as he draws the blood out, and it simultaneously horrifies and arouses Stiles that Derek gets off on this.

Stiles bites down. Sucks the blood out with more force. Derek moans, writhes beneath him, his stroke falters, he loses time, jerking erratically. Then he stiffens, going rigid beneath Stiles, a long drawn out groan passing his lips, vibrating his throat.

Derek's come hits Stiles' bare belly, streaks up to his chest. It's hot, so hot, painting a trail of fire that matches the stream of heat in Stiles' throat. Derek's stroke stills, and the only movement is the steady pulse of Derek's cock as he empties his balls.

Stiles hasn't come, and he can't get the image of coming _on_ Derek out of his head, so he shoves Derek's hand off and starts jerking his own cock. His fingers are tacky-slick with Derek's come, and Derek's still letting out soft breathy grunts with each mouthful of blood Stiles draws out of him. Stiles wants to see it, so he lets go of Derek's throat, feeling full and blood-drunk, and he sits back so he can see his hand on his dick.

"Come on me," Derek says, and his eyes are heavy lidded and his head lists to the side. Maybe Stiles took too much, maybe coupled with the release of orgasm it's too much for Derek. Stiles is only going to be able to work this shit out through practice, but maybe drinking from Derek while they're having sex isn't such a good idea.

It's hot, though, feeling Derek's life flowing into him, warming him from the inside out, taking part of him inside—

When Stiles comes, it's so many firsts. First orgasm with an actual real live person, first orgasm with Derek, first orgasm as a vampire...

He paints ribbons over Derek's belly, cock and balls, spurts until he's spent, then he falls forward into the mess, pressing his cheek to Derek's chest, slick and sticky with sweat and blood and come, and his eyelids flutter.

"You okay?" Derek asks, after his own breathing has evened out.

Stiles opens his eyes and looks up. Derek's heart is pounding in his ear, a little fast, but steady. "Yeah." He pushes himself up, puts his fingers on Derek's cheek, tips his head to the side to examine his throat. "You? Did I—?"

But the bite on Derek's neck is already healed, tiny patches of shiny skin the only evidence. They fade before Stiles' eyes. "You're okay," he says, relieved. Already he can smell Derek's blood replenishing itself. He can see why the other one, the vampire that hid here from the daylight attached himself to werewolves, why he came looking for another pack.

"We should have listened," he says. "To Tom, or whatever his name is. Was. Jesus, Derek. All of it happened because we didn't listen. He killed people, but it was our fault." He pushes back, zips up his jeans as he rises to his feet and looks around. "And what am I doing? Just taking over his life."

"We didn't know," Derek says. "Not until it was too late." When he gets to his feet, fastens his own jeans, he seems slow, clumsy. "I'm sorry," he says, looking up. He takes a few steps toward Stiles and then stopped. "You would have died."

Stiles swallows hard. He can still taste Derek's blood on the back of his tongue. "Yeah." He nods, and then looks around again, at the chests and cases full of notebooks. So many years, such a long life, and it's come to an end. Stiles can't imagine it, can't imagine living so long, eventually losing everyone he loves. Years going past in the blink of an eye.

"I should call my dad," he says.

"Wait." Derek crosses the space between them, wraps a hand around the back of Stiles' neck, and he kisses him. "That won't happen to you," he says. "I promise."

"You can't promise me that," Stiles whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed reading, please hit the [Kudos ♥] button.
> 
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